Filthy Casual!
by Shana Hager
Summary: Melee was an extremely tough time for Kirby, but one man helped him through it. For EMPIRE OF JOY's Angst contest.
**Filthy Casual!**

Kirby slammed open the two large doors and stomped into the office. "POYO!" he shouted.

"Gosh, Kirby, are you okay?" asked Master Hand. "It happened again, didn't it?"

"Poyo, poyo!" snapped Kirby.

The little pink puffball almost wished he didn't accept the invite to Melee. If only he'd known how things would turn out for him! The first tournament was small but fun, and Kirby was considered one of the best fighters there. But when Melee dawned, Kirby's fortune did a 180. Instead of among the best, the Hero of Dreamland had been unceremoniously cast to the bottom. Unlike the first, light-hearted get-together, things became downright serious in Melee. The glory-minded tournament players had taken their competitive attitudes to the max. Once the rankings were made official, the mighty Star Warrior was treated with contempt and disdain. Instead of being regaled for his fighting style and Copy Abilities, Kirby was now labeled as a "filthy casual", unfit for tournament play. If anyone wanted to last in a tournament, they looked to Fox. Fox this, Fox that—20XX everywhere, folks! It was slowly driving Kirby insane!

"What was it this time?" asked Master Hand.

"Poyo, poyo, poy, poyo, popoyo, poyo, poyoyo, poyo, poyo," began Kirby. It had been a match against one of "the cooler crowd", and Kirby was winning. The blue-haired swordsman didn't even get in one of his famous shield-breaking attacks. Kirby had been fast and fierce and gave no quarter, his energy and strength found in the envy and hate and other rottenness he'd stored up inside. You'd feel hot sometimes if people constantly used you as a ball! He'd smiled, waved "Hiiii!" and waited for the opportune moment to knock those looks from the faces of the tournament die-hards. He saw _fear_ in the bluenette prince's eyes. He made sure that all of his offensive options were useless. Hammer. Final Cutter. Stone. Inhale. Get him. Get him. Don't let him win.

Kirby didn't let him win.

It was when Dean, the emcee, declared Kirby the victor that he realized that things had gone to feces.

Turns out, almost everyone was angered that the Hero-King didn't win, and that this bottom-tier ball of pink fluff didn't deserve victory. The sparse cheers of Sir Meta Knight, Tuff, Tiff, Lalala, Lololo, Ribbon and his friends and supporters were drowned out by the hateful sounds of the tourney fanatics.

"BOOOOOOO!"

"You suck!"

"What is this to you—playtime?"

"You call yourself a Star Warrior?"

"Filthy casual!"

"Filthy casual!"

"Filthy casual!"

Oh, God. There they were. Those two fateful words destined to cling to him like grime. Filthy casual. That was what he was. Only non-serious gamers used him. If you wanted to play against your friends and chill after school or whatever, you used Kirby. If you wanted to lock horns with experienced gamers and clinch victory, you used Fox. That was the status quo in Melee.

Those two little words with big venom echoed in Kirby's brain as he summoned a Warp Star and flew out of the arena, determined not to cry. The vehicle deposited him in the hallway, where he decided to talk things over with the head of Smash himself.

Master Hand listened contemplatively and sadly to Kirby's story. When Kirby was finished, he sighed heavily.

"Kirby, I'm sorry. You have to believe me, I tried everything. But you can't come running to me every time this happens. I'll keep trying as long as I can, but nobody likes a tattletale, yes?"

"Poyo," Kirby said softly before puffing to his room.

As soon as the door closed behind him, his fuse blew.

Smashing. Crashing. Slamming. Slicing. Bashing. Screaming. Crying. Kirby was a rotund ball of fury, and his room was the target. If he took it out on those diehards, then _they'd_ be the victims. "POYOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" he roared as his rage continued to run its course. "POYOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! POYO, POYO, POOOOOOOOOY!"

Where else could he go? Who else could he turn to? What else could he do? How much longer could he take this? He felt hopeless and betrayed. How could so many people turn their backs on him just because of some rankings on a chart? He still had some friends in the tournaments as well as back home, but—who was to say they weren't being set upon, too?

Melee was becoming a nightmare, and there was no way out.

* * *

"Hello, is this Sir Meta Knight?"

"Speaking. Who is this?"

"I'm one of Kirby's new friends in Melee. Listen, I called you because I know you're his teacher, and—he needs help. Some big help."

"Isn't Master Hand trying to wrangle this?"

"Yes, and failing badly. You're the first person who came to my mind because of what Kirby's told me about you. These people—they're harsh and they won't let up—and—it's only going to get worse. I can feel it. I know it. I was in that position two years ago. I was last place and considered a loser."

"Ah, _claro que sì_ , I remember you. _Escuchàme_ , you continue to do what you do. Love him. Support him. Be there for him and defend him, just how I would do. I'll be there as soon as I can. But until I get there, you need to be strong for Kirby, _comprende?_ "

"Yes. I hope I didn't…"

"Don't start. It was wise of you to contact me."

"Thanks, Sir Meta Knight. Please, hurry. I'll be waiting."

* * *

Basking in the afterglow of his release, Kirby lay on his bed, cradling a photo in his stubby arms. "Poyo," he said adoringly as he stroked the image. It showed him, wearing a green cap, posing beside a man wearing an identical green cap. The two were smiling and happy and the best of friends—he was one of the Smashers who helped him survive.

It was the thought of Luigi that helped Kirby halt his downward spiral into hopelessness. The timid man was also the puffball's guiding light. Fitting, too, since he had first-hand experience in all of this. Melee had ranked him fairly high, but that wasn't always so. In the tournament that began it all, he was all the way at the bottom, just like Kirby was now. He suffered through the scorn, disdain, reviling, degrading and heckling; he soldiered through it all to become a very formidable fighter. That being said, it was easy for him to empathize with Kirby and give him the comfort he desperately needed.

 _Yes. Thank you, L. Thank you so much._

"Poyo…" sighed Kirby, reflecting over the hours and hours he'd spend with Luigi, the times a phone call would lead to an all-nighter. All of the movies they'd watch. All of the sweets they'd eat. All of the times Kirby would fall asleep on Luigi's chest, just like a kitty cat. And all of the times Kirby would watch with unconcealed glee as Luigi put 20XX or 20BC or some other cool jock in their place.

Kirby and Luigi were connected in Melee. They squeaked slightly below being kindred spirits.

 _Thank you, Luigi…_

His boots barely touched the ground as he sprinted down the hallway to Kirby's room. _Please, be okay_. Winning and being met with such animosity hurt more than any physical blow. As one of Kirby's friends, Luigi had to watch out for him. He just wished he knew where to find the ones who did this to him, so he could pay them a nice—personal—visit.

"Kirby! It's me," he spoke urgently, rapping on the door. "Please, open up."

The door swung open. "Poyo?"

"I got here as fast as I could," gasped Luigi. "How are you?"

"Poyo, poy."

"You spoke to Master Hand? And he said that to you? He's in charge of this, and he tells you not to come to him?!"

"Poyo, poyo, poyo, poyoyo, poy, popoyo."

"Can I come in?"

Kirby shrugged. "Poyo, poyo."

Luigi stepped inside and sat on the bed. "Kirby, you may not know this, but it's going to be okay," he said gently. "I'm here, and Meta's here, and the rest of your friends are here. We're not going to let them get to you. Not by a long shot."

Kirby joined Luigi on the bed. "Poyo!" he chirped.

Luigi scooped Kirby into his arms and lay down, cuddling the puffball against his body. The Star Warrior, soothed and safe with the man in green, smiled and fell into a comforting sleep.

* * *

 _Five days later…_

"Filthy casual! Go play stupid games with little kids!"

Kirby puffed confidently past the idiot who had spoken, on his way to train with the other fighters. Silently, he recited Luigi's words of advice to him. Ignore them. Don't turn back. Never look back. Don't even interact with them or tell on them. They feed on that. Without that fuel, their flames of hate will flicker and expire, and they'll move on to someone else. Just don't acknowledge their presence in any way.

"I'm sorry; perhaps you didn't hear," persisted the guy. "You are a filthy casual and you do not belong in this tournament!"

Kirby didn't bat an eye, nor did he spare the interloper a glance. _He'll take the hint_.

"I addressed you, and I expect to be addressed back!"

The heckler didn't get another word out as someone rammed into him.

Kirby allowed himself a smirk at the fading sounds of crying, begging and punching before floating into the Training Area, ready to rumble.

* * *

Two hours later, a very sweaty Kirby puffed out of the Training Area, on his way to get some snacks as well as something nice for Luigi. The plumber had been kind to him, and it was only nice to be just as kind. He fantasized using his Cook ability to make him a pasta dish or his Paint ability to create a portrait. He visualized the bright smile on his face, similar to the bright smiles Luigi brought to _his_ face.

Unfortunately, however…

"Hey, marshmallow!"

Some more tournament fanatics were waiting for him. Kirby began puffing faster, but one of them physically blocked his attempt to pass.

"Poyo?" Kirby sharply demanded of them.

"A dear, dear friend you have there, Kirby," said the ringleader, smirking down at him. "Imagine the devastation if _something_ happened to him. As they say, _action have consequences_."

Oh, no. Now they'd done it. They could mess around with him to their heart's content, but going after his best friend was the dealbreaker! Swiftly, Kirby reached out and grabbed the ringleader by his collar.

"Hey! Hey, put me down!" he shouted, kicking and struggling, masking the terror slowly invading his soul.

Kirby pulled the ringleader close, pushed his round face to his and hissed:

"Poyo."

And then he flipped himself over the ledge, taking the ringleader with him.

* * *

 **Translations:**

 **1) Listen to me.**

 **2) Of course.**

 **3) Understand?**

* * *

 **Please review, and I wish the other contestant the best of luck!**


End file.
